


The Case of the Red-Headed Herring

by friendlywitch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 07:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16080965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlywitch/pseuds/friendlywitch
Summary: And suddenly, Pentaghast is very tired. She’s been on the trail for so long, doggedly searching for Hawke and her team of raggedy misfit criminals. And now Hawke’s gone, dead, her blood a permanent stain on some dusty alley behind some dusty bar.More than anything, she’d like to go home and watch her stories.





	The Case of the Red-Headed Herring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RipplesOfAqua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RipplesOfAqua/gifts).



> I hope you like arguably the most intense crime-fighting duo ever conceived. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship!
> 
>  
> 
> Feel free to leave kudos/comments/poems/whatever~

They first meet in an interrogation room. The suspect’s wrists are in cuffs, and Pentaghast’s nose is in the casefile.

“So. I see you’ve been spending quite a bit of time at the Hanged Man on 6th, is that right--”

 Pentaghast levels a gaze on the suspect, with her stalwart expression, lips pressed into a tight pout. She eyes her shiny combat boots, blunt red hair tied in a low ponytail, and her muscle tee, and her muscles, if she’s honest. She blinks back at the file.

“--Melissa?”

 “I like to drink. Is that illegal?”

 “Are you drunk right now?”

 “Maybe.”

 She isn’t. It’s clear to Pentaghast that this _Melissa_ is in full control of herself, back straight against the hard metal chair. Her words are clear and her hands are still and her light eyes are focused intently on the file in Pentaghast’s hands.

 

“You’re not.”

 “What does it matter?”

 “Just wanted to set the record straight.”

 

Pentaghast closes the file and crosses her arms, trying to look intimidating. Truthfully, she doesn’t have to try terribly hard, with her heavy eyeliner and naturally snarling expression and her deep European voice. And then there’s the scar.

 “Were you there 3 nights ago?”

 “Where?”

 “The Hanged Man. On 6th. September 19th, were you there on September 19th?”

 “You already know I was. Ask me what you really want to ask.”

 “You want things handled directly. I respect that.”

 “Thank you. But I’m not particularly susceptible to flattery.”

 

Pentaghast shuffles in her seat. Melissa’s steady gaze is annoyingly familiar, full of conviction. “Fine, let’s get to it. Did you murder Marian Hawke in the alley behind The Hanged Man on September 19th, at approximately 2:45 am?”  

 Melissa blinks, and for a moment Pentaghast thinks she might see the hint of a tear.

 “Of course not.”

 And there’s something in the half-hidden emotion in her voice that makes Pentaghast believe her.

 “I don’t believe you.”

 Melissa crosses her arms, a challenge. “What you believe doesn’t matter to me.”

 

And suddenly, Pentaghast is very tired. She’s been on the trail for so long, doggedly searching for Hawke and her team of raggedy misfit criminals. And now Hawke’s gone, dead, her blood a permanent stain on some dusty alley behind some dusty bar.

 More than anything, she’d like to go home and watch her stories.

 

“Let’s end this. Marian Hawke is dead, and either you did the killing or you know who did. Neither of us can leave until you give me a lead. So give me one.”

 “Bored already? Because I could be here all night.”

 Melissa is posturing, and Pentaghast knows it. “Just give me a hint. A clue. Where can I find the body?”

 Melissa is silent.

 “Must we do this the hard way?”

 Melissa snorts. “What, Detective, is the hard way? Are you going to hit me?”

 “I don’t hit women.”

 “How noble.”

 

They stare at each other for a moment, and Pentaghast decides to switch tactics.

 “You know, I’ve been in the murder business a long time. My uncle used to take me along on his shift. I spent most of my childhood in a police cruiser.”

“Well? And?”

 “He used to tell me about people. He was very good at them, at understanding them. I prefered to fight them.”

 Melissa’s eyes fall to her freckled hands, and Pentaghast follows her gaze. “It’s easier, isn’t it.”

 “You strike me as someone who has fought a long time. Maybe as long as I have,” Pentaghast says, and she means it.

 Melissa’s fingernails are clean.

 “You carry yourself like the military, like someone who was taught. Like me.”

 Her hair is washed, her skin clear, her shoes polished.

 “My file says that Melissa Smith is a petty thief with no family and no home. My file says that Melissa Smith went across the country on a Greyhound bus, bathing in gas stations and lifting drugs from ex-boyfriends scattered in every state.”

 Her eyes are dry, distant. No recognition.

 “You are not Melissa Smith.”

 

Not-Melissa’s head snaps up at that. And Pentaghast sees that familiar challenge in her eyes.

Pentaghast sighs, the obvious realization hitting her. “You’re a fucking cop, aren’t you?”

Pentaghast’s stewing with frustration at her own idiocy. She’s been tracking Hawke and her guys for months now, without a single break in the case. And then there was the jewelry store heist, a heist that had Hawke written all over it, and the only trace of evidence was security footage of Not-Melissa Not-Smith casing the place the day before, staring intently at a loose floorboard behind the counter. That footage had led Pentaghast to discover a trafficking ring spearheaded by the store’s assistant manager, but there still wasn’t a lick of proof that Hawke, Melissa, or anyone else had done the heist. Of course she was a fucking cop.

 

“I’m not.”

“Who do you work for? The FBI?”

Not-Melissa betrays nothing.

“Consider yourself made, Melissa Smith. It’s your duty to tell me the truth now.”

 

Not-Melissa balks at that. Her _duty_. “They’re good people, you know. They stand for all of us. But... they’ve got non-traditional methods.”

“ _Illegal_ methods.”

“Effective ones. I’ve helped more people with them than I ever did in uniform.”

 

So it’s out, then. Pentaghast tosses the file aside. “You speak with authority.”

“I had it, once.”

Pentaghast raises an eyebrow. “And no longer?”

Officer Not-Melissa sighs. “I believed in order. I strove for it. But everywhere I looked was chaos. Corruption, from the top to the middle to the bottom. And I grew tired of fighting the usual way.”

“So you joined the ranks of wanted criminals?”

“I wouldn’t make my officers fight gangs in dark corners, but I decided to do it myself… from the inside.” Officer Not-Melissa’s voice goes soft, like a plea for forgiveness. “And Maker help me… Hawke and and all of them… felt like family.” Not-Melissa’s cuffed hand barely reaches her collarbone, where the hint of a tattoo peeks out over her neckline. She glides her fingers across it like she's rewinding a memory.

 

“What’s that?” Pentaghast asks before she has time to remember that she _doesn’t care_.

Not-Melissa presses her fingers against her skin, protective. “A reminder of family. Something I’d lost... It’s his crest.”

 

Not-Melissa seems lost now, probably wondering how she came to sit on this side of the table.

 

Pentaghast clears her throat, blinking back rogue tears. She doesn’t like this, the speeches. She is a woman made of barbed wire, and until 5 minutes ago she’d expected the same of the mysterious person across from her.

 

“Then why did you let Hawke die that night?”

 Officer Not-Melissa cuts her eyes at the two-way mirror. “I did what was right.”

 Pentaghast leans back in her seat, the cold metal cutting into her back. She comes back to Not-Melissa’s fingernails, spotless. Meticulous. Scrubbed clean.

 

And that’s when it hits her. Months of work weren’t for nothing. The chase is still on.

 

“There was so much blood that night, all over the place. A mess. Such a mess that none of us needed to even see a body.” Pentaghast looks her over again, for good measure. "You don't seem particularly messy. Not unless you wanted to be."

Not-Melissa avoids her gaze.

“We were getting close. I was getting close. After what happened at the church--”

“That wasn’t Hawke's fault. That was misplaced trust, nothing more.”

“After what happened, I was about to get her. I was about to get them all.”

 

“Too bad she’s dead, then.”

“Too bad.”

 

And there’s that familiar challenge again. But this time, it’s laced with mutual understanding.

 

“What’s your real name?”

“Aveline.”

 

Pentaghast arches an eyebrow. “A strong name. But what will I call you?”

 

Aveline lifts her eyes to Cassandra’s. A question, or several. Can I trust you? Can we take on this chaos together? Can we fight until the blood on our hands beats quieter than the blood in our veins?

  


“I don’t have any idea where she is, you know.”

“I assumed as much. But in the meantime, there is still work to do.”

We can.

  


“Vallen.”

 

This is how they become partners.  



End file.
